


They'll whisper

by cuneifire (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1920s, 20th Century, Fascism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Nazism, Weimar Republic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 17:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: “We’re allies now!” Italy says, hands dragging against the thick fabric of his pitch black uniform, giving Germany the most dazzling smile he’s ever seen. (And Germany can’t help but lean in, can’t help but want to be closer, no matter what the cost might be.)





	They'll whisper

1928

.

Germany looks to the signed treaty, loops and dug in initials and promises dug in steel. Pact of steel, it was called.

His gaze drifts astray the room, casting over the low lit light and dark velvet draped curtains.

“Germany” a high, soft pitched voice breathes to him, tone unusually low.

Italy’s gaze meets his own, white teeth biting over ruby red lips, eyes low from across the table.

“So, -are we-” Germany says, feeling choked on his own voice as he takes in his new ally, black clad jacket and silver buttons and - was that black lining his eyes?

“Yes,” Italy drawls over, sliding out of his seat and pacing towards Germany. The room-it’s uncharacteristically small, empty aside from the square table that Italy is now perched upon, pristine white walls and dark red mahogany wood slick and polished underneath his shoes. It’s markedly Italian, a small space occupied by two leather chairs, a sleek wooden table lined with cream colored treaties, and Germany.

And Italy.

“Germany~,” His now ally says, -almost sings, switching easily from Italian to German, humming a sweet little melody and he kicks up his legs that dangle near Germany’s knees.

He’s smiling, tilting his head back so that Germany can just see where the black of his collar meets the tanned skin of his neck, tongue peeking out as he licks his bright red lips. He tears his eyes away, towards a more respectable place, like the papers. The papers. Yes.

Eventually there’s popping sound that resembles a clack of bone, and Italy stops stretching. His hands come down to grip at the edge of the wood, leaning forwards so his weigh balances precariously at the table’s edge.

Germany does everything within his power to keep his gaze from his new ally, eyes drifting to anything, anything except the way Italy’s uniform presses to a flat line across his sharp collarbone.

Which, is, as it turns out, rather difficult, as Italy seems to be intent on holding his attention.

His lips part softly as his gaze flickers up to meet Germany’s, heeled jackboots coming up to touch Germany’s knees.

“We’re allies now, Germany!” He exclaims, excitement painting his features like a spoiled canvas. His fingers tug at the side of his belt, shiny silver glinting in the low light.

“Ah. Yes.” Germany says, and his collar is too tight- cravat pulled so it feels as if he is always just slightly short of breath, a shortness that has absolutely nothing to do with the way his chest constricts painfully when his eyes meet Italy’s dark golden brown ones.

Golden? A bit the same shade as the champagne that Italy holds in his hand now, popping the cork off to reveal dark orange- almost yellow, perhaps brown with the light.

No, not precisely that, he thinks as Italy carefully pours him a glass. Italy’s eyes are much darker. The champagne is near transparent, golden and bubbling in the dim light. Italy’s eyes are dark as a summer sky in the dead of night- no, no, that’s wrong, like-

“Do you want one?” Italy questions, cutting Germany’s thoughts straight into fractions. He’s already halfway through pouring Germany’s cup.

Germany nods, throat tight.

Italy smiles as him as he passes the champagne glass, taking Germany by the wrist. He flicks his hand to dip the stem of the glass into Germany’s open palm, lithe fingers warm against the cool of the glass. Bubbles rise up to the top of the glass, little flecks of gold sparkling on the fabric of Germany too constricting suit.

The tilted grin on Italy’s lips is apparent as he raises his own glass to clink against Germany’s, still tilted downwards in a vein dangerously close to spilling.

“To our alliance, Germania.” He begins, shadows painting his dark eyes, velvet red curtain dark and shadowed behind him.

Germany meets his gaze. “To the greatness of our nations,” he replies. He watches Italy, who has not yet pulled away from their toast, as he crosses his legs and leans even further forwards into the space between them, so close Germany could kiss him if he wanted to. Pale white papers spill out beneath his hands as he speaks.

“To an ideology which will change the world.” Italy states, so close his breath ghosts over Germany’s lips, so close Germany can see the flickers of gold and red in deep dark brown.

And then Italy takes a sip, exposing more tanned skin, shirt pulled down to reveal the flat planes of his chest, collar askew further to his shoulder.

Through half lidded eyes, he looks at Germany, warm fingers pressing into his palm.

“Yes.” He says, barely a whisper, watches Italy shift his hand off the table to flick the buttons at his collar, tugging the silver slivers loose from the dark black off his uniform. The emblem on his sleeve shines unnaturally white in the dim light, axe and wood surrounded by pale flames. Above the rest of the emblem is a star.

_It is a metaphor._ Germany thinks, eyes drifting from the jacket strewn loosely across Italy’s shoulders.  _The star. We shall rise above it all._

_We shall prevail._

His gaze meets Italy’s as he takes a long, hard sip of champagne. The taste is half bitter, half sweet, cool unlike the finger pressed to his pulse.

He feels himself being tugged forwards, barely catching his weigh from falling to the table on the bones of his wrist. Alcohol dulled pain strikes up his arms as his hands fall on either side of Italy.

A melody rings in the back of his mind as he straightens, and it slowly occurs to him that Italy is singing. Humming at first, but when Germany looks up his mouth forms words, and he sets the champagne glass aside in favour of switching to Italian.

_“Giovinezza, giovinezza_ ”, he’s singing, high pitched notes, swinging his legs to touch Germany’s waist, pitch black on pitch black.

“ _Primavera di bellezza,”_  He sings, pulling Germany somehow even closer, so their eyes match and Italy’s feet dangle near him, knees pressed on either side of his hips. Hands come to rest on his shoulders.

The glass of champagne in his hand is dangerously close to spilling. 

“ _Nel fascismo è la salvezza-”_  Italy sings, high pitched voice so unlike what Germany knows that song sounds like,  _what is it again-_

And then he’s not thinking anymore because Italy’s hands are fixed on his collar, and he realizes it slowly but he’s being pulled into a kiss.

His hands catch on the black leather belt at Italy’s hip  _“Itali-“_ He says, breath catching and eyes widening.  _Germany can’t do this-_

_It doesn’t make any sense-_

Italy’s eyes slit open, unfairly long lashes pretty dark brown over his flushed cheeks.

“Germany,” he says, licking his lips with a dark glint to his eyes, pulling Germany by the hooks and folds of his suit. His hands shift on Germany’s shoulders to pull them closer, so close Germany can almost  _taste_ the bubbling champagne on his now ally’s lips.

“Don’t you want this?” He says, head tilted, jacket half off and collar pushed downwards in a way that  _somehow makes it more attractive-_

And then they're kissing again, for real this time. Germany’s eyes immediately shut, and it’s like falling into the dark, feeling Italy’s soft lips yield under his, gripping his uniform jacket in fisted hands and pulling it down further, feeling knees press into his sides.

“Mmmm…” Italy trails off with a sort of breathy moan, linking his hands behind Germany’s neck, the edge of his fingers curling at the back of Germany’s cravat, clever fingers undoing it with a few easy tugs, fabric falling apart under his touch.

Italy pulls back, just slightly, far enough that Germany can see his fluttering eyelashes and glinting eyes, his ruby red kiss swollen lips, how his teeth flash out in a grin, just briefly, for such a short second Germany’s convinced he had imagined it.

               Fingers pull at the fabric of his suit, and then there’s a hand at his chin, tilting his head up to meet Italy’s eyes as he hears his sweet, sweet, voice.

“ _Nel fascismo è la salvezza,_ ” he sings, and Germany he could swear Italy had said that particular combination of syllables before, and-

_“Della nostra libertà.”_ Italy finishes, gaze meeting Germany’s with eyes resembling fire,  _like little red sparks, Meine Gott,_ and then Italy’s pulling off the buttons of Germany shirt, and  _his heart is not supposed to beat that fast,_ and just then his eyes slam open and-

_What song is that?_

And then Germany is awake.

His hands dig into the wooden frame of his bed.

It was a dream, he feels himself think, breath coming down hard with wide eyes. His heart thrummed an erratic beat in his chest.

_What- what was that?_

He forces himself to breathe, in and out, one endless second at a time, starting with panic at the grimy window in front of his eyes, beautiful still near decimated architecture of Berlin spread out in front of him.

Then, slowly, he thinks over it.

That, he concludes, makes no sense whatsoever.

Italy. He had been kissing Italy. Italy, of all people. The moronic coward he’d found hiding in a trench when he was supposed to be engaged in combat. A moronic coward who was very much his enemy in the last war, of whom most of his political parties held no fondness for, and who Germany himself was loathe to tolerate.

It was comically absurd. There was absolutely no reason he should be dreaming of Italy, of signing treaties or allying with him, of  _those things they had done-_

But, he thinks, trying to find some sort of plausible solution. Perhaps.

There was one possibility. A rather small, unlikely one, but still, Germany was not one to believe in the insensible, so it would stand that an unlikely case was better than an absurd one.

Italy, he remembered, or rather recalled, was fascist. Which meant of course that the majority of Germany’s political heads despised him as much as Germany himself (he held back a laugh at the thought of Thälmann or Wels negotiating calmly with Il Duce).

But there was one party-

Eyes just fluttering shut, he can remember in the back of his thoughts a party that did indeed support the ideals Italy (attempted) to stand for. Vague flashes of a coup in Munich came to him, and he resisted the urge to laugh. The Nazi party? Why would he be having dreams because of them? That tiny, insignificant little portion of his population with an obsession with blackshirts and picking fights they couldn’t win? That’s why he was having these- these dreams about Italy in- in that fashion?

He shook his head, pushing up off the bed with a sliver of a grin just twisted on his face.

Nazis. What a ridiculous idea.

.

Halfway through the day, he realizes why he woke up.

_That song-_

_It was Italy’s anthem._

**Author's Note:**

> Notes
> 
> -The song Italy is singing is called “Giovinezza” (which translates to “Youth”), the anthem of Fascist Italy. Also, the lyrics in this fic are those from the 1922 version, although realistically they should be from the 1924 version.
> 
> -Otto Wels; Runner for the Social Democrats in the 1928 German Election. Won the election with 153/491 seats. For context, the Nazi party won just 12 seats in the election, or little over 3% of the total German population.
> 
> -Ernst Thälmann; Runner for the communist party in the 1928 German election. Won 54 seats.
> 
> -Referenced is the Beer Hall Putsch, a failed coup staged by the Nazi party in a similar vein to Mussolini’s march on Rome in 1922. Except Mussolini’s succeeded.
> 
> I once said I would write something historical/angsty for this ship. And look! I came through on my promise. I'm so proud of me. Um, all that aside, i have nothing to say. Hope this was... interesting, I guess? For the record I don't see their relationship this way whatsoever, but Germany's mind is weird i guess. Or something. Idk hope you guys liked!!


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